Deductive Emotional Reasoning
by Sentimental Star
Summary: Just a moment's glimpse of an unnervingly unguarded Sherlock, and John put his long-honed deductive skills to use. He didn't expect he would potentially need them to save the detective's life. EDIT: CH. 2 "Derailment" IS UP!…(Intense Friendshipfic. Reichenbach AU.)
1. Deductive Emotional Reasoning

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Moffatiss.

_**Author's Note:**_ Be it blessing or curse, as a writer I have multiple stories and multiple storylines all jockeying for a place in my mind as I spin them, and unless I write them down, I usually lose at least 25 percent of what I originally intended to write. End result, I post another story when I haven't yet finished the first. Not an excuse, just a simple statement of fact ::grins::. Trying for a 6 + 1, we'll see if it works—alternative Baskerville ending that most certainly will evolve into an alternative Reichenbach Falls. I hope you enjoy it!

_**Rating:**_ T (language, violence)

_**Summary:**_ Just a moment's glimpse of an unnervingly unguarded Sherlock, and John put his long-honed deductive skills to use. He didn't expect he would potentially need them to save the detective's life…(Intense Friendshipfic. _Reichenbach_ AU.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Memories/Thoughts (Italics)**_

_.:Deductive Emotional Reasoning:._

_By Sentimental Star_

_**6. (Deductive Emotional Reasoning)**_

Sometimes John questioned his own sanity, he honestly did. True, nothing had _really_ happened (save for as close as he'd ever gotten to a PTSD flashback while awake), but the very _fact_ that he'd forgiven Sherlock for experimenting on him—with or without the drug—made him wonder where his mind had gone to.

It was all fine, though. It had _always_ been all fine, and never more so than now, when he had that _look_—that damnable _look_—echoing deep within his eyes.

_**God**__, he really __**is**__ sorry._

The expression he wore, as arrested as John had been by it, never wavered…and it was so much more than a realization that what he had done in the Baskerville lab was 'A Bit Not Good.' _So _much more. Enough to make John feel as though someone had mercilessly ripped out his heart and then shoved it back in with little care for his chest cavity. Enough to make him stop eating and wonder what the bloody hell had happened in the past five minutes to make Sherlock so unguarded and so unaware and so _vulnerable_ as he sat beside him.

Then it was gone (even if it wasn't, really, flash-burned into John's memory and forever hidden just beneath Sherlock's indifferent mask), and the detective stood, wearing the most wistful smile John had ever seen grace his features.

"I'll be a minute," he murmured. "Got to see a man about a dog."

A slight wink and rather smaller smile, and then he was gone, headed towards who the doctor could only assume was one of the innkeepers.

John watched him go, swallowing against the horribly unsettled lump clogging his throat.

_**Shit**__. What's happening? What's gone wrong? Sherlock…__**bloody hell**__, what did you do?_

"Morning."

It was a groan, and John nearly jumped as Gregory Lestrade dropped down next to him on the bench, coffee in hand.

He barely caught himself, "M-Morning," stammered.

Lestrade peered at him curiously, but otherwise did not remark on it. "Unbelievable, that," the Detective Inspector remarked.

Totally nonplussed by the seeming non sequitur, John blinked, "What is?"

Lestrade gestured using his mug behind John, in the direction of the Inn, "_That_," he murmured, taking a sip.

The doctor blinked again and twisted to glance over his shoulder.

He found only Sherlock, talking with Gary, and would have dismissed it as nothing out of the ordinary…if he hadn't already been on edge from the unexpected insight he'd gained only moments prior.

Now he saw what Greg had, and not only saw, but _observed_: for a man who claimed sociopathic tendencies (hah!), Sherlock certainly spoke warmly enough, and with _compassion_, at that.

He'd seen it in Dewer's Hollow, too, John reflected suddenly, with Henry. Gentle eyes had been in the Hollow; here, it was an easy, upward quirk of his lips, nearly genuine, and he'd just _rested his hand_ on Gary's shoulder.

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered disbelievingly.

"Ta, I know, right?" Lestrade responded with a jaunty little salute and another sip of coffee.

"No, I mean, seriously…_bloody hell_. Christ, where's my best friend got to?"

The DI raised a curious eyebrow, "Over there, apparently," he retorted lightly, jerking his chin slightly towards Sherlock.

John scowled, unamused. Both Lestrade's eyebrows snapped up, "John…? Christ, what did he do now?"

"A better question might be what _didn't_ he do," the doctor grumbled around a mouthful of coffee, briefly thinking back on the failed 'experiment.'

Lestrade set his cup down and regarded John seriously, "Y'know…if he's done something wrong, I can-"

A sudden bark of strangled laughter interrupted him, "_Wrong_?" John ruffled up his hair anxiously, "Five minutes ago Sherlock Holmes looked at me like the world would end if I weren't in it. Yes, I'd say something is _wrong_."

Greg regarded him solemnly, dark eyes hooded, "It just might, you know," he murmured, "_his_ world, anyway."

John about fell off the bench, "…_What_?" he sputtered. "That's—_no_, he _can't_-"

"He _can_," the DI answered dryly, "and he _does_." At John's continued incredulity, Lestrade sighed, dropping his eyes to the coffee cup in his hand, "I've known him for three years, John, and only in the past year has he added 'Sorry,' 'Please,' and 'A Bit Not Good' to his repertoire as something more than a means to an end. Caring never saved anyone and Love was always a Chemical Defect found on the losing side—but he does, John. He loves you. You've _become_ his world, and were he to lose you…"

The DI trailed off, shaking his head. At this proximity, John could see the pinprick of tears in the older man's eyes, and knew he was remembering Sherlock as the junkie he had been.

_**Sentiment**__,_ the doctor realized. _Greg loves him, too…in his own way._

That decided his next course of action.

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"How are you at subterfuge?"

Lestrade nearly spat out his coffee as he did a double-take, "…_What?_"

_End Chapter_


	2. Derailment

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it is all the brainchild of ACD and Moffatiss.

_**Reviews: **_All _8_ of you, thank you!

_**Author's Note:**_ Chapter 2 is up to bat. Really hope you like this chapter, as it is one of my favorites. Granted, I'm not entirely happy necessarily with how some it may have turned out, but still…wanted to pay extra attention to this particular episode ::grins::.

_**Rating: **_T (language, mention of past drug use)

_**Summary:**_ Just a moment's glimpse of an unnervingly unguarded Sherlock, and John put his long-honed deductive skills to use. He didn't expect he would potentially need them to save the detective's life…(Intense Friendshipfic. _Reichenbach_ AU.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Memories/Personal Thoughts (Italics)**_

_.:Deductive Emotional Reasoning:._

_By Sentimental Star_

_5. (Derailment)_

"You aren't serious, are you?" Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. He'd already had a rough morning (woken before the crack of dawn to catch a train that came late, no coffee, little breakfast) and it was shaping up to be an even rougher day.

John Watson raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, seemingly unaffected by the swaying motion of the train's carriage along the rails, "Problem?"

The DI scowled, "Yes, not the least of which is that you're channeling Sherlock more with each passing day. Cut it out, damn it!"

"I do live with him," John pointed out mildly.

Lestrade ignored him, "You _cannot _be serious," he groused , flopping gracelessly back against the compartment door behind him. "We're talking about Sherlock Holmes, we're talking about _Mycroft _Holmes! When is the last time _anyone_ has fooled them? You _know_ Mycroft has CCTV everywhere—he probably has one in this corridor now!"

"He doesn't," John's response was easy and immediate, as he unconsciously adopted a military stance to more comfortably maintain his balance in the hallway.

Lestrade gaped at him, "Bloody hell, you _are_ serious! How the _flying_ fuck do you know that?"

"I had Sherlock check. I didn't tell him why, of course."

Scotland Yard's DI heaved a deep sigh, knocking his head back against the glass, "John…this is ridiculous. Nothing is _going_ to happen! You're overreacting!"

John drew in a deep breath. "I'd _rather_ be overreacting, than be without him," stated firmly and quietly.

Lestrade jerked his head up, startled, "Where the bloody hell did _that_ come from?"

John ignored him. "Greg…I know you don't want to go against Mycroft, but if you do nothing else, _please_ just keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary."

Lestrade opened him mouth to refute him—_again_—about the chance that anything unusual could possibly occur—or, at least, anything unusual as far as Sherlock was concerned—and paused, a troubled grimace working its way across his countenance.

John noticed, and immediately frowned, "Greg?"

"Actually," the DI drew his response out slowly, thoughtfully, "something unusual did occur this morning. I received a 'wake-up call,' from our favorite consulting detective in the form of a particular 'seven percent solution…'"

(Earlier That Morning)

_The knock was perfunctory. The moment a blear-eyed Gregory Lestrade opened the door to his room at the Inn, Sherlock stepped inside, already fully dressed for the day. Brushing down his suit as if he'd been waiting outside Lestrade's door for ten minutes instead of ten seconds, the consulting detective held out a case containing a pair of syringes and multiple vials filled with an unidentifiable liquid._

_At first, Lestrade didn't even look at it. Scowling tiredly, he all but snarled, "Sherlock...what the bloody bleedin' hell are you doing here at…" he glanced at his bedside alarm clock and scowled even more at the pulsing green numerals, "five sodding thirty in the morning? Did you even __**sleep**__?"_

"_John would have preferred it if I did," the consulting detective replied easily in the face of his Detective Inspector's ire. "You know I don't sleep during cases."_

"_The case is __**over**__, you flaming ass. Get the sodding hell back to __**sleep**__," he groaned, scrubbing his face, "so __**I**__ can sleep!"_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"_

_Lestrade didn't even dignify that with an answer. "Why the fuck are you even here?"_

_The room was quiet for so long, Lestrade thought Sherlock wouldn't answer. That in itself was highly unusual. Sherlock almost __**never **__wasted time or breath standing in one place when he could be elsewhere, solving a murder, robbery, or in some other equally dangerous situation._

_It finally got him to really __**look**__ at the younger man before him. His usual pristine appearance aside, Sherlock looked __**tired**__, strung out in a way that had Lestrade's stomach flip-flopping with dread. It was a look far too similar to the deadbeat junkie the DI remembered with much too vivid clarity._

_It also made him take notice of the case still in front of him._

_His stomach nearly made an appearance on the floor. "I thought you were __**clean**__!" he hissed, snatching the syringes and vials out of Sherlock's hands and quashing the urge to smash them into a million tiny bits on the floor._

_**NO. Fuck, not this again!**_

"_I __**am**__," Sherlock insisted softly, folding his hands tightly behind his back. At the pure disbelief filling Lestrade's face, he glanced away, "…but the flat wasn't," he murmured at last._

_The DI sat down heavily on his bed, holding the case limply in his hands, "So why give this to me now?" he asked quietly, knowing without Sherlock's having to voice it that this was the last of the drugs that had so haunted the consulting detective in his twenties._

_Another long period of silence followed his question, the reappearance of such an uncharacteristic quirk making the DI's throat tight._

"_John-" Sherlock started at last, but then allowed his response to taper off, shaking his head and blinking his eyes repeatedly._

_Before Lestrade could get so much as a word in edgewise, the consulting detective was gone, whirling out the door._

IOIOIOIOIOI

"…I'll dispose of them as soon as we're back at Scotland Yard," Lestrade finished softly, trying not to let Sherlock overhear, even though the consulting detective sat in a compartment halfway down the hallway.

John leaned heavily against the opposite (empty) compartment for support, raising his eyes heavenward and squeezing them shut. "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you do me a favor?"

"Anything," the DI's response was immediate.

John cracked open an eye, surveying him with weary, grim humor. "I haven't even said what it is, yet."

"John…Mycroft and I have tried for _three_ _years_ to get him off the drugs. We knew he always had them within reach, but we couldn't—and then you arrived. You arrived…and suddenly he wanted them _gone_. But it wasn't until this morning that he surrendered the last of them. After that, I think even _Mycroft_ would be willing to do just about anything for you."

"Even keep out of it until I say otherwise?"

Lestrade stared at John a moment, remembering that this is what started their entire conversation in the first place, and trying to process exactly what that kind of request implied. Thought of Mycroft Holmes's inability to abandon his overprotective, big brother persona where Sherlock was concerned, and groaned.

"Bloody impossible," he grumbled.

John quietly folded his arms across his chest, "Then we're back full circle."

Lestrade grimaced. "They're _two_ of the most bloody brilliant minds of the century, John! You really think we're even remotely capable of deceiving them?"

Pensive silence fell between the two men, then, "We have to be," John murmured.

The DI pushed off the door to straighten up, planting his hands on his hips and cocking his head to one side.

The stare that met him was even, unwavering. Clearly, the doctor would not be moved unless the Hound of the Baskervilles itself showed up, and as that now stemmed from an impossibility, Lestrade had little hope of winning this argument.

"Oh, bleedin' hell!" he finally groaned, scrubbing a hand through his graying hair. "_Fine_. Just so you know, I'm blaming _you_ if I get drawn up on charges of treason."

John shrugged. "That's all fine."

Lestrade's mouth opened in refute, but nothing came out. Slowly, he closed it, crossing his own arms over his chest. "You're really, honestly determined to go through with this, aren't you?"

The doctor merely inclined his head. "Of course."

Releasing a gusty, rather put-upon sigh, the DI conceded, "All right, _all_ _right_. _Fine_. I had no hope in hell of convincing you, anyway."

John smiled thinly in response, and Lestrade shook his head, "What the fuck are you still doing out here? Shouldn't you be _in there_," jerking his chin in the direction of their compartment, "instead of _out here_? _You're_ the reason we could even _have _this conversation!"

John blinked, then graced the DI with a crooked smile, "…Right."

Without further delay, the doctor jogged quickly down the corridor to the compartment they'd left not ten minutes before.

Feeling rather responsible for the uncomfortable situation sure to arise, and morbidly curious about Sherlock's reaction, Lestrade followed John.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Upon John's rather graceless re-entry, Sherlock immediately glanced up, "John…?" he drew out slowly, an eyebrow raised nearly to his hairline.

John hesitated in the doorway, clearly unsure how to start.

Puzzled, Sherlock frowned, intently eyeing his flat mate.

Lestrade arrived on the doctor's heels, just as Sherlock geared up to deliver one of his infamous (scathing) deductions. The DI's appearance at John's shoulder halted him mid-breath.

Within a millisecond, half a dozen emotions flitted across Sherlock's face, before being pulled under a wooden mask, "You told him."

It wasn't a question. Lestrade simply shrugged, "Sorry, mate, would have happened eventually. 'He's your doctor,' and all that."

Sherlock scowled. Before the Detective Inspector could be left reeling in the wake of a blistering analysis about his (failed) marriage, John sat down in the seat across from the consulting detective and reached out to touch his chin. "Sherlock."

Startled by the brush of John's fingertips, the younger man jerked, yanking his attention to the doctor in front of him.

"Thank you," stated firmly. "I'm proud of you."

If ever Lestrade doubted Sherlock had a heart, it was put to rest now.

_Bloody hell…is this what John sees every day?_

The DI didn't think he had _ever_ seen an expression quite as extraordinary as the one Sherlock currently wore. More than five emotions flitted through Sherlock's dark eyes in quick succession, finally settling on a look that Lestrade could only label as "bewildered."

At John's uncertain smile in response, Lestrade nearly snorted.

'_Not his world,' my ass. You're literally not fooling __**anyone**__ now, you idiots._

A squeak of wheels in the corridor beyond jolted doctor and detective's attention back to the environment around them, and the older man quietly watched as John quirked another, rather larger smile at their friend, "That'll be the food cart. I don't suppose it would do me any good to ask if you wanted anything…?"

The hope in that question was tenuous at best, and normalcy returned as Sherlock snorted, "Obviously."

John rolled his eyes fondly, standing up, "Right, can't imagine what I was thinking. Anything for you, Greg?"

Sitting back in the seat that John had abandoned, Lestrade stretched out his legs, crisscrossing his ankles and lacing his hands behind his head, "Ta, mate. I'm good."

"Right," the doctor sighed, "because something as mundane as _lunch_ shouldn't be an option. Back in a tick."

Before John exited the compartment, he paused in front of Sherlock to squeeze the younger man's shoulder, even stooping down slightly until they were nose to nose.

Lestrade resisted the urge to cough, fully aware of the uncomfortable sense that he might be intruding. "You…you might want to catch that cart, John," he murmured.

John pulled himself back and seemed to blink, a slight flush coloring his cheeks as he let his hand drop. "Right."

As 'his' blogger left, Lestrade kept a surreptitious eye on Sherlock: the man looked dazed, and it did not take a genius consulting detective to figure out why.

"You could have just hugged him, y'know," Lestrade couldn't resist pointing out, a Cheshire grin on his lips.

A fierce, uncomfortable scowl flickered across Sherlock's face, and he promptly ignored the DI across from him in favor of his mobile phone.

Lestrade's smirk gradually faded as he leaned back into the cushions of the seats, quietly contemplating what lay in store for him during the months ahead and still a little more than half-stunned by the entire situation that first started unraveling yesterday morning.

_Bloody __**apologizing**__ to someone who isn't John? Offering __**compassion**__ when I'm not sure he even knows the word? Acting bloody __**human**__ when there were days I wasn't even certain he understood he was part of the species? Giving up drugs because John __**asked him to**__?_

A rather abrupt request from Sherlock jolted the older man out of his reverie, "Go get me some coffee, would you, Lestrade?"

Startled, annoyed, the DI bolted upright, "Bloody-! _What_?"

"I would like some coffee. You know I dislike repeating myself."

"Yes, I bloody well _know that_," Lestrade retorted sharply, "but why the sodding hell do I have to-!"

"You are breathing. It interferes with my thinking."

Lestrade opened his mouth to growl out something he most likely would regret later…then stopped, as he realized something—even as Sherlock's fingers flew across the mobile's keys, the older man could just make out the first three letters of Mycroft's name on the screen:

_Bloody hell, it's all an act! He's __**calling **__Mycroft!_

It was, in fact, an act, and that became infinitely clear a moment later when Lestrade realized there had been an underlying _'please'_ in the diatribe that was startlingly polite (for Sherlock).

…_Yeah, on second thought, John has every right to be worried._

"Fine," he huffed, getting up.

As soon as Sherlock went back to his mobile, Scotland Yard's most intuitive DI made a beeline for John.

IOIOIOIOIOI

He found the ex-army doctor ordering a watercress sandwich from the condiments cart. Crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in the doorway behind John, he waited until the other man had made his purchases before speaking up, "John…?"

There was a noncommittal grunt. "Yeah?"

"You might want to reconsider your choice not to involve Mycroft."

John's head whipped up and around so fast that the girl manning the cart took a startled step back and barely stifled a squeak, "What? _Why_?"

Lestrade pressed his lips together grimly, "Because I'm pretty sure Sherlock may already have the beginnings of a plan in place—and Mycroft's going to help him."

_End Chapter_


End file.
